


petals in a storm

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Jaskier can heal with a kiss, Jaskier has magic, M/M, Magic Kisses, Pre-Slash, Pre-angst, Self-Sacrifice, geralt needs a lot of looking after, he can do one thing at least, if that makes sense, ish, literal ones, this is never explained
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Jaskier dances across the Continent, a song on his lips and a spring in his steps, his path marked by trails of kisses.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, pre Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 327





	petals in a storm

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Fair' by the Amazing Devil

It’s a bird, the first time. Nothing strange or exotic or magical about it; its plumage is a dull brown, and it raises its head weakly and chirps at Julian as he approaches it. It isn’t afraid. That’s the thing that entices him forward. Makes him kneel next to it, the early-morning dew soaking into his trousers, though he doesn’t realise that until much later.

Because Julian kneels next to the bird. And sees that he was wrong, that its feathers aren’t all earthen brown. Some of them- the ones covering its breast- are a bright scarlet. A bright, unnatural, scarlet, the colour rapidly spreading and sticky against his feathers.

Julian, all of six years old, noble son of a wealthy family, doesn’t know what death is. For better or for worse, his parents have shielded him from that fact of life. Despite that, because of that, he knows that something is wrong. And his heart- young and untried and oh so gentle- _breaks_ when he picks up the bird in his trembling hands and feels its ragged breathes, sees the laboured rise and fall of its chest stutter. And then still.

“No,” Julian whispers, hardly knowing what he’s protesting against, only that something momentous has happened.

There’s only one thing he can do, really. And he leans down and- soft as a butterfly’s wing, soft as a whispered promise, soft as his mama’s lips against his grazed knee- he presses a kiss to the bird’s breast.

And then there’s the strangest feeling of tugging, deep in his chest. Not painful, not exactly. Not at first. Just- hollow. A vessel, cracked. Liquid seeping out the sides. A tingle in his lips, ozone on his breathe. The feeling grows and intensifies until it’s catching in his throat-

-and then, just he thinks that he can’t take it anymore, the energy will stream from his heart and through his mouth and leave him hollow and alone and still, still like the bird is still-

It stops.

He sways back, darkness prickling at the edge of his vision, weakness tugging at his limbs-

The last thing he hears before he collapses, before the world goes dark and velvet soft- the last thing that he hears-

-is birdsong.

#  
  


Jaskier dances across the Continent, a song on his lips and a spring in his steps, his path marked by trails of kisses.

He gives part of himself away at every village and tavern: a passionate embrace in Novigrad; a quick peck on the lips to a barmaid in Ellander; a fond farewell to a soldier in Beauclair.

At the Edge of the World, filled with shame and guilt and revelations he would rather not have known, he takes his chance and kisses the elf, Toruviel, on the lips, trying to draw out her illness. He doesn’t have the authority, ability, or frankly the guts to give them back their lands, but perhaps he can help in another way.

He only makes contact for a second before he is being pulled back, stumbling into Geralt. Even that second almost ruins him; he’s left pale and shaking and breathless, can feel the poisonous iron circling through his bloodstream. Toruviel will recover. She is, however, a lot larger than a bird. And her illness is more serious than the cuts and bruises and aching hearts that he’s used to.

“What the fuck were you thinking, bard-”

Geralt’s angry recriminations- only half-heard through the pounding in his hears- fall silent when Tiruviel fixes Jaskier with an inscrutable look.

“I don’t need your pity,” is all she says, but she and Filavandrel are looking at him with something in their eyes. It might be regret. It might be respect. Whatever it is, Jaskier leaves the elves with a brand-new lute and unrelenting faintness that he can only hope that Geralt attributes to having been kicked in the ribs.

#

Geralt, Jaskier discovers soon enough, needs a lot of looking after. Oh, not when it comes to killing monsters, or rescuing princesses (something that happens surprisingly often, he discovers). No one can argue that Geralt is bad at his job; indeed, Jaskier discovers, to his delight, that the Witcher has a surprisingly academic side when it comes to cataloguing the creatures that they find on the Path. Unless, of course, they’re drowners again. For Melitele’s sake, how many people have drowned? It’s a truly awful way to go, and one would think that people who live next to a river would actually know how to swim.

He shudders, thinking of their cold lips, of the suffocating weight on water on his own lungs-

“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps at him. “Focus.”

Ah, yes. Back to Geralt. Who’s an idiot. A huge idiot, who thinks that things like a _large_ , very _bloody_ wound on his dominant side that- lest anyone forget, he can’t actually treat on his own- isn’t any cause for concern, and instead of visiting a healer like a normal person decides to leave it to heal on its own. When Jaskier has a perfectly capable pair of hands on him! True, he hasn’t actually seen anything of this magnitude before, but that doesn’t mean he can’t at least help.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and then resumes his task. Namely applying a thick paste that hisses and smokes when it makes contact with the Witcher’s skin, and that he had had to promise Geralt he wouldn’t touch with his bare hands before he was even allowed to look at the jar. He’s almost done, but he’s not convinced that this is actually going to help. At all.

His hands are admirably calm as they wrap a messy bandage around Geralt’s right forearm, to ensure that the paste both stays on and doesn’t accidentally get anywhere else where it could cause damage. Which is a good indication that it’s dangerous! And that Geralt should be using something else, Witcher resilience or no.

Geralt had been less than impressed when he had pointed this out, however. All stony looks and pointed ‘hmmms’. The Witcher can pack a lecture into those grunts; anyone who calls him laconic merely hasn’t spent enough time around him.

Jaskier had left it at that as he didn’t want Geralt to storm off in a sulk, wound left untreated. He reserves the right to complain about it later, though. Voraciously.

“There!” he says, tucking in end of the bandage. “All done.” Jaskier’s hands pause, resting on Geralt’s shoulder. He darts a quick glance at the Witcher’s face, trying to gauge how likely it is that he’ll be punched if he tries to help out a bit more.

Geralt’s face is as inscrutable as ever; that is to say, pretty easy to read. There’s a tightness around his eyes, one that only makes an appearance when he’s in serious pain but he’s feeling particularly stubborn, and doesn’t want to admit that he’s human enough to want a pain-dulling potion. Or a rest in a proper _bed_.

Fuck it. Jaskier’s survived being punched in the balls once; he’s sure that he can survive it again. So, as quickly as he can, he leans forward and gives Geralt’s shoulder a quick kiss. It feels _terrible_ \- he almost chokes on the searing pain and he _knew_ that Geralt was lying when he said it was nothing! He knew it!

“There,” he says, as nonchalantly as possible when all he wants to do is throw up and his shoulder is throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“What?” Geralt is staring at him, wide-eyed, and Jaskier wants to laugh, because is that the first time that anyone’s done that for him? Not the healing, evidently, but the kiss- it’s a fairly common thing when it comes to soothing children’s injuries- And then, abruptly, he wants to cry. Because shit, that might actually be the first time that anyone’s done something like that for him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, acutely aware that any sign of softer emotion will have Geralt running for the hills before you can say ‘emotional constipation’. And then he smiles as brightly as possible at the Witcher. The pain in his shoulder is calming, though he still wants to vomit.

“Just thought it might help,” he continues blithely. “After all, I’ve been told that my kisses are _magical._ ”

For a moment, Geralt just stays there, sat before him. And then he stands, abruptly, and rolls his shoulder, testing his range. The flash of surprise in his eyes when the expected pain doesn’t come makes Jaskier grin to himself in sweet vindication. Worth it. So, so, worth it.

“I don’t want to hear about your trysts, Jaskier,” Geralt says. But he holds out his hand- his non-dominant hand, thank the gods, because if he had tried it with his injured side Jaskier would be having _words_ with him- and, when Jaskier takes it, he hauls him up.

Well, _that_ is a thank you if ever there was one!

“You’re welcome!” Jaskier chirps, smiling through the black spots obscuring his vision, a result of standing up too quickly. And then, because perhaps on occasion his common-sense falls before his desires, he reaches up and presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. He sucks in a shaky breath as another wave of nausea passes through him, sending a bolt of pain through his head-

But the lines of pain around Geralt’s eyes have eased. And he hasn’t been punched in the balls, so he’s chalking this up as a win.

“Jaskier, I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaskier interrupts. “If you’re not going to go to the healer, I need to earn my keep somehow, don’t I? Though of course, my scintillating presence is reward enough!”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but he’s smiling. “I suppose you have your uses.”

“ _Uses_? I’ll have you now, were it not for me you’d be writhing on the floor in pain!”

They fall back into their usual banter, but as Jaskier lies by the fire that evening, shoulder throbbing and too tired to even pretend to strum his lute, he knows that something has changed. Because there’s a certainty, deep inside him, that he would do anything, sacrifice anything, give anything that’s his to give (and quite a few things that aren’t) to see Geralt free from pain. However brief the respite it may be.

He always knew that he would die by Geralt’s side. One way or another. And if he can ease his burdens along the way? All the better.

**Author's Note:**

> The working title and/or prompt for this was _sometimes the best thing a flower can do is die_ and the knowledge that Jaskier is named after a flower.  
> Surprisingly, this got a lot less angsty than expected! I don't think that I'll continue this so! Thoughts that I have for this AU:  
> -Jaskier can heal people/animals by kissing them  
> -this takes a lot of energy. So much so that he could literally die from this  
> -this was originally where this story was going to go (and would still probably go in the future if I had the motivation to finish it)  
> -geralt doesn't know  
> -Jaskier kisses everyone he loves, healing the small scrapes and bruises of everyday life  
> -I don't want to finish this, because I know how it ends, and at least this way they are still alive and happy
> 
> Thank you for reading! I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


End file.
